Ashes of the Fall

by Nicholas Erik

  “What happens then,” I say, the words mush in my mouth.

  “You talk like that forever.”

  Good to know Slick and Blackstone gave me a list of potential side effects beforehand.

  Slick flips me over, propping my head up with a bundled jacket. Half the down is missing, but it’s an upgrade from using the crate as a pillow.

  “We’re not done, bud.” Slick disappears for a few minutes. The dull sting at the back of my neck distracts me from the burn in my leg. I’m left alone to wonder what this plan is, and what my part is.

  Furthermore, what role I can possible play given my status as the most hated man in the NAC. I haven’t seen any newscasts since I left, but I can only imagine the pitchfork mobs in New Manhattan. Threats to safety must be eliminated swiftly and without hesitation.

  He returns bearing a clumped handful of white gauze, bottle of grain alcohol, and a tool that resembles a blow torch a little too much for my liking.

  “Grabbed what I could on short notice,” Slick says, noting my expression. “It’s gonna hurt.” He offers me the hard liquor. I take it and start drinking immediately, tears streaming down my cheeks from the noxious burn.

  “All right, save some for me, would ya.” He yanks the bottle away and then unfurls a switchblade. Before I know it, the soaked bandage below my knee is stripped clean, and I’m staring at a red, angry wound.

  I gag a little bit, but that might be from the spirits.

  Slick gives no warning—he just dumps a stream of grain alcohol on the leg, pressing down with his free hand to stop me from kicking him in the face. It’s like a clamp I can’t escape from, despite my best efforts and wild jerks. Sweat begins pooling on my forehead.

  “Lemme go, you bastard,” I scream, trying to hook him with my left hand. He ducks and then finally lets go. I curl my leg up to my chest and guard it with a vengeful stare, lest he try to get near it. It feels like battery acid is corroding my femur. “You’re fucking fired, man.”

  With a sympathetic smile, he reaches into his pocket to pull out a foil pouch. The writing is too small for me to see. Besides, the alcohol is beginning to kick in on the edges of my vision, and the pain still commands most of my attention.

  “This, along with the alcohol, will kill any infections,” he says. “Get you healing right.”

  Tossing the pouch in front of me, he says, “You can do the honors.”

  With a tentative peek over my knees, I take a closer look at the pouch’s label. Dr. Jameson’s Antibody Solution—Cures Ailments in 24 hours or Less! I’ve seen those ads on television. The billboards. Dr. Jameson doesn’t have what I would call a trusting face.

  “Any side effects?” I say.

  “Maybe,” Slick responds. “But you wanna know something, bud?”

  “Not really.”

  “Clock’s ticking here,” he says. “We gotta bug out in five minutes, before Tanner’s men pick up the trail. You don’t take that and the wound gets a little gangrene, you’re not gonna be nearly as good with the ladies sporting a single leg.”

  Growling to show my displeasure, I rip open the foil packet and pour it into the wound. Immediately, a foam—like when you combine baking soda and vinegar—begins sizzling like a steak in a pan.

  Needless to say it freaks me out. “Get it off,” I yell. “Come on, this isn’t funny.”

  Slick is heaving up against the wall, practically crying, and I can hear the rest of the guys, thinking this is hilarious, too. Bastards. See what it feels like when they get shot, stuck in a cattle car and shipped off to their public executions.

  Maybe my pain tolerance isn’t as high as it normally would be, given the stress of the situation. But I get no points for extenuating circumstances. I stop yelling and grind my molars together, dampening any noise from my throat. The laughter, after a minute, subsides to periodic snorts.

  “All right, you done hollering?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he says. “This is gonna hurt.” Taking the cauterization torch in his dominant hand, Slick flicks the switch, a bright blue flame hissing softly at the end. As it approaches my skin, I start to pour sweat. “Don’t move too much, otherwise I’m gonna burn your damn leg off, bud.”

  This time, I don’t make a sound as the torch sears the bullet hole shut and the smell of my own flesh envelops the room.

  Then I pass out.

  When I wake up, I immediately project vomit on to the floor. Head spinning, it takes me a couple minutes to get my bearings. When my vision finally comes into focus, I find that I’m in an old motel room with cracked walls and a ceiling fan with three blades broken off.

  I’m lying on a cot, completely alone. A floor lamp flickers and buzzes next to a tube TV sitting precariously on a flimsy nightstand. By the layer of dust on the screen, I’d say it hasn’t been used in years.

  My stomach turns again, and I heave, but nothing comes up. When the retching finally stops, I realize that I’m in a pile of my own sick, sheets drenched in yellow sweat.

  “Damn side effects,” I mumble, trying to roll out of bed. I end up face first on the rough carpet. Stumbling towards the bathroom, I find that a brackish, rust colored water tumbles from the leaky faucet.

  Given my level of dehydration, it tastes amazing. Even if it comes right back up.

  The door opens and I stand bolt upright, heart beating.

  “Jesus, bud.” My shoulders sag and relax. It’s only Slick. “We’re gonna have to burn this place, once you’re done with it.”

  I limp back into the main room, where Slick stands near the entrance—clearly avoiding direct contact with the warzone. Wiping my mouth, I hobble to the bed and sit down. Ancient springs on the cot groan.

  “You’re the one who gave me the antibodies,” I say.

  “You drank the water? Brave man,” Slick says with a grin. Then his expression turns serious. “This is a safe house. For now.”

  “How long I been out?”

  “Almost a day. The nausea should subside, although you got hit worse than most, judging by the impressionist art on the floor.”

  “Put it on my tab,” I say. All I really want to do is go back to sleep. Lying in my own puke doesn’t even bother me. Everything hurts.

  “That’s why I came,” Slick says. “Your tab.”

  I lie down and stare at the ceiling. So that’s how this new world’s gonna be. Everyone coming for their pound of flesh, paying tit-for-tat. Even the man who practically raised me. If things were bad before, I don’t know what to call this.

  “You keeping a ledger, Slick?”

  “Medicine, gas, none of it comes free,” he says.

  “How did you escape, anyway?”

  “Deals,” he says. “You trade and barter and survive. Nothing’s free, bud. I’ve told you that before.”

  “So what’s my life worth,” I say, an edge coming into my tired voice. “Blackstone want me to do this, is that it?

  “This is between you and me,” he says. “Man to man. I saved your ass, and you’re gonna do me a favor in return. Who I owe is none of your concern.”

  So it is for Blackstone. This is the Director’s way of working me over, trying to convince me that he’s the right horse to back.

  “How do you know Blackstone, anyway? Not like you two bumped into one another shooting pool at some dive ass bar.”

  “I got picked up along the border by a Circle patrol, where Oklahoma used to be,” Slick says. “They scanned my band, found it was fake. Checked the records, figured out who I really was. I was sent down here almost as soon as I escaped the ash cloud. Spent a few days in jail, waiting to be sentenced and processed into the Otherlands. And then Blackstone came to me, said he would wipe the slate clean if I agreed to help you survive a jailbreak escape. Said it would be the beginning of a long and fruitful relat
ionship.”

  “I bet.”

  “It was a lot of risk, bud,” Slick says. “You owe me. You owe him.”

  “What can I do you for?” I say in a sarcastic tone.

  Slicks fold his arms, his long sleeves rustling together as the fabric tightens to his chest. “You’re one of the only ones without a HoloBand installed.”

  “Which means what, exactly?”

  “When the time comes,” Slick says, “and you’re healed, you’re gonna go on a little expedition for me. Because I want to settle up with Blackstone as soon as possible.”

  Great. Getting in the midst of a little power struggle. My silver tongued charm has me now caught in the middle of the Circle, Blackstone’s defectors, the Lionhearted, and whatever group Slick is assembling.

  “Yes sir,” I say in a mock tone, my eyes growing heavy. “Absolutely sir. Where to, sir?”

  “Into the Lost Plains.”

  Fuck.

  I stay in bed for another week, but whatever meds Slick’s men fed me make my leg heal too damn fast. I’ve never wanted a permanently debilitating disability so damn bad in my life. When I feigned that it still hurt earlier this morning, Slick called me on my shit by shocking me in the ass with a cattle prod.

  I darted halfway across the motel room before I could even think to lie. Bastard.

  I stand next to the diesel-powered cargo truck, nervously tapping my foot. I’m early, first one here, the morning sun barely peeking through the gray sky. The motel’s parking lot is empty—truck not withstanding—and no movement comes from within its rooms. The landscape is absolutely still. Peaceful. Which makes it seem like a prelude to something awful.

  This place is a throwback to a low-rise time: two stories, a manager’s office. A little roadside shelter to take a load off while you travelled with a couple kids fighting in the backseat. In the distance, the specter of Atlanta looms, its metallic monstrosity of a skyscape looking like a miniature version of New Manhattan’s. It’s in good shape, considering it hasn’t been inhabited for two decades.

  I wonder what this first mission for Blackstone—via Slick—is gonna entail? The Lost Plains don’t seem like the place to send any hero or high value asset. Which makes me thing I’m not as important as they want me to think.

  When I travelled to see Matt, I had the privilege of traversing the Lost Plains via the relative safety of the transcontinental Hyperloop. Unlike the transport that took me to the Otherlands, this one had its defenses locked and loaded for the duration of the ride.

  The entire hour-long trip through the Lost Plains—until we hit what used to be Ohio—was scored by a chorus of gunfire and missile launches. Frequent reminders from the friendly robotic announcer tried to placate the terrified passengers. Some of them—those used to the assault, having made the journey before—managed to snuggle up and sleep.

  Me, I watched a flat landscape dotted with explosions and sudden bursts of rat-a-tat gunfire. A couple rounds even hit my window, but the small arms fire didn’t break through the bulletproof glass. Now, I’m about to saddle up and head into fringes of the Lost Plains without the benefit of cover.

  The Circle, for whatever reason, gave up on the Lost Plains—about everything east of Utah and west of Tennessee—when they rose to power in ’26. Just too much of a pain in the ass, I guess, to round everyone up. The coasts were obviously important strongholds, given their proximity to natural resources. There just wasn’t enough of an iron fist to go around. Still, the Circle basically relinquished half of the remaining land in the world to outlaws.

  Not that I blame them—the Lost Plains even scare me. A familiar voice startles me as I check the clasps on my boots to make sure they won’t fall off if I have to haul some ass.

  “Not bad,” Kid Vegas says. He slaps me on the chest, pitching me against the truck. Skinny son of a bitch is stronger than he looks. A pair of goggles are strapped to the top of his head, turning his side-part into a cowlick mess. They’ve got shades built-in.

  “Who gave you those?”

  “Made ‘em,” Kid says. He presses a button on the right side of the goggles, and the lenses tint even further. “Had some spare parts lying around. Got bored.”

  “So Blackstone sent you here, too?”

  “I got my own thing going here,” Kid says. He lights a cigarette, but doesn’t offer me one. “Your friend Slick agreed to take out my HoloBand if I went along and babysat. Seems they don’t trust you yet Stokes.”

  “What’d Blackstone want from you?”

  “Nothing I’m gonna give him,” Kid says, avoiding the question. A week’s growth sprouts from his face, making him look older, wiser than when I saw him last—his name a misnomer.

  I snap on the respirator and goggles, tugging on the elastic bands to tighten them. Just as I finish, a man wearing tight, neoprene clothing and running shoes darts up. He has a wrapped note in hand, tied with a red and white ribbon.

  “Luke Stokes,” the runner says, jogging in place to keep his heart rate up—or whatever runners do in the cold, “a message from Director Blackstone’s office.”

  “You’re a popular man,” Kid says. He scratches his beard and gives me a look.

  The runner sprints off towards the city, blazing across the cracked asphalt like he’s got the dogs of Cerberus nipping at his heels. Maybe he does—a dog name named Blackstone. On the horizon, far, far down the road leading into Atlanta, I spot bumper-to-bumper trucks headed north up I-85.

  “They’re bringing ‘em in the old fashioned way,” Kid says, blowing smoke towards me. “Tanner must’ve suspended Hyperloop service down here after you broke free.”

  They’re all manually driven. I wonder where they came from. “They’re not automatics.”

  “Satellite coverage is spotty in these parts,” Kid says. “And with the ash blowing around the country, who knows. Can’t have your self-driving trucks crap out in the middle of the highway when they’re filled with dangerous folks, right?”

  The front end of the convoy disappears into the skyscraper jungle. But it hardly seems to make a difference—for every truck that goes in, there’s another one right behind. Chancellor Tanner’s cleaning house, and he’s doing it quick.

  “Open your little present from the man in the high castle,” Kid says, pointing towards the rolled paper with his cigarette.

  I undo the red and white ribbon, allowing it to flutter to the ground. It lies listless on the broken lot, contrasting brightly with the faded yellow lines.

  The note is short and perfunctory. Blackstone understands that I’m better—which is excellent, by his measure, because that means I can get to work on helping him. After I return from my current task, I’m to tell his agents everything I know about Carina Alonso. Any details at all that could be used to apprehend her and recover the stolen 2.5” solid state drive.

  And there’s one more thing, too. He needs me to begin rehabilitating my public image. When the time comes for the coup, I’ll need to unite the factions behind him—support his Chancellorship. They’ll listen to a hero.

  They won’t listen to a murderer.

  “That good, huh,” Kid says, stamping out his cigarette. “You look like someone offered to kick you in the damn balls.”

  “Sounds about right.” I roll the note up. Then I decide fuck it, and throw it into the calm dawn air. It doesn’t get very far. With a funny glance, Kid walks over and picks it up from the pavement. “Hey, don’t read that.”

  “Shouldn’t have tossed it away.” He chews his lip while he reads. “Rehabilitate, huh? I don’t think you’d make a good party mascot, Stokes.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “I figure you probably robbed at least a couple old ladies in your time,” Kid says with a grin. He sparks his lighter and then touches the flame to the paper’s edge. It combusts into a curly pile of black ash in seconds
. “There. Job done right.”

  “I’ve never run grift on an old woman,” I say. “Forty, forty-five, maybe.”

  “You sleep with her?”

  I don’t answer.

  “You’re a dog, Stokes,” he says. “We both are. Nothing can change that.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not your problem.” I stand straighter when I see Slick approaching. He looks funny next to a woman who stands almost a head taller. On his right is a mountain of a man.

  “This is your team,” Slick says, nodding towards Kid. “Adriana, Jackson—meet Luke Stokes and Kid Vegas.” There are quick handshakes and nods all around. “Kid’s in charge, as you all know.”

  “I didn’t know,” I say.

  “You do now,” Slick says. There won’t be any preferential treatment. I gotta pay up and square my tab, just like anyone else. And I don’t even get to be ringleader. Doesn’t he know everyone’s tapping me to be a hero? Guess Slick doesn’t share the sentiment.

  “Adriana’ll be your driver,” Slick says. “She’s the best in the business. No one steers a manual like her.”

  She doesn’t say anything. There’s a wad of tobacco stuck in her jaw.

  “Jackson here is your gunner and support,” Slick says. “He’s survived three dozen trips and counting out in the Lost Plains.”

  “Question,” I say. Everyone looks at me, and not in a good way. I don’t suppose I’ve come here bearing the best reputation. “Where’d you meet all these fine people, Slick? Through Blackstone?”

  “I’m making contacts,” Slick says cryptically, “these are good men. And women.”

  “Kid and Luke, you guys are gonna be the recovery team. You’re clever, can think on your feet. Hopefully not get your ass kicked too bad” —he looks directly at me, which I don’t appreciate— “and get out before there’s too much trouble.”

  “What’re we getting,” I say.

  Apparently the chorus of questions is too much for even the silent Jackson and Adriana, because the big man comes over and lays a hand on my shoulder that about crushes me into the parking lot and says, “Stop talkin’ so much, Golden Boy.”